


An Answer Now Is What I Need

by DAZzle_10



Series: You belong with me [6]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Falling In Love, Homophobia, M/M, Self-Discovery, Sexuality Crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-05-12 12:45:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19229413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAZzle_10/pseuds/DAZzle_10
Summary: Dylan's straight. Of course he is. Which is why he isn't attracted to any men. At all. Apart from a certain teammate of his who looks far better in England kit than that red shirt and whose presence would have been much appreciated earlier in the summer, who may or may not be gay himself, who's very clearly the definition of professional and would never consider a relationship with a colleague, who Dylan can't stop staring at when he's meant to be watching thegame...But yes, aside from that, he's straight.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo... Finally managed to work out how to start this off, after one prolonged, very much failed attempt. Planning is now ditched and out of the window, and everything is in my head like normal - *much* better. So here, we have a prequel to it all, the 'how it started off' from Dylan's PoV, and I've got to admit to being excited - to the point that I'm having to rein in my urge to go off on a tangent and completely mess with everything I've already written. I almost feel some empathy for JK Rowling...
> 
> But yes! I'm slowly shrivelling up without any rugby (nah, to be honest, it's almost fine, because I'm actually training on a regular basis myself again, even if it means I am now permanently on the verge of a cold again...) - but not for long because I have some exciting news, which is also a little bit terrifying, and that is (drum roll please...) I'm joining a rugby club. The men's team. And sure, I'm admittedly sacrificing one of my pool sessions for that, but it's rugby! And I'm doing it! Yay!
> 
> On an entirely separate note, I don't really watch Dan or Phil much, but I watched all 45 minutes and however-many seconds of that video. And the one from Eugene from the Try Guys today? Watched all of that. My heart right now is just... Yeah, no, we're all good. 
> 
> Anyone else *really* want Rory Stewart to become PM? The man is the only vaguely decent candidate and, at least in some aspects of life, an absolute legend. Absolutely terrified about Boris getting in, but let's face it... It's just occurred to me that it'd be interesting to write something on Owen and Dylan regarding this, but I think I'll step back from speculating about their respective political opinions, and honestly? I'd rather not give Esther McVey or however you actually spell her name any more of my time than entirely necessary.
> 
> Other than that... Please enjoy Stage 1 of Dylan's sexuality crisis! (I'll update characters/tags as I find out for myself what's going on with that.)

Dylan’s not entirely sure when it started: somewhere between noticing that Owen’s Lions shorts didn’t fit him as well as England’s after too many beers and deciding that, of all of the men who went off to New Zealand, Owen was the one he missed the most during his own time with England, probably. Maybe around the time he caught himself tracking Owen instead of the game itself when they played the Crusaders, when he started finding the penalties and conversions more engaging than the rest of the action in the first two Lions Tests put together, never mind the club games. Or maybe – as much as he hates to think it – long before that, because although he’s only become distinctly aware of it within the last few weeks or so (nowhere near long enough to come to terms with it all), it’s certainly been there longer.

In all truthfulness, he’s still not entirely sure what ‘it’ is; so he notices little things about the man he’s been sharing a room with for large periods of time over the last however many years – so what? Who cares if he misses having a brain to pick over all the minute little details, if Owen’s an excellent Vice Captain for the team and a good friend, too? That’s all it is. It’s just been a week; he shouldn’t be taking this more seriously than a phase of melancholy longing for more familiar England camps, after a slightly awkward tour this summer.

The only problem is that it’s really _not_ all it is, as much as Dylan would like to convince himself of that. Missing Owen as a colleague and friend – whom he doesn’t see for large stretches of the year anyway – doesn’t explain why he knows that Owen’s arse looks better in England kit, let alone _why_ he was looking in the first place, or why he remembers the sight well enough in England shorts to be able to compare. It certainly doesn’t explain why he’s so excited for the November Tests in _July_ , because yes, he likes playing for England, but it’s constantly in the back of his mind that Owen will be there.

The worst part is that, Dylan knows, if Owen was a woman, it would be so much easier to explain. He’s had these feelings and thoughts before; he knows the ropes by now, and could have already worked out what to do and how to approach it (or not). Owen isn’t a woman, though. He’s a 25-year-old man, muscular and – irritatingly – slightly taller than Dylan, and definitely, _nothing_ like any woman Dylan’s ever been interested in before. All this, of course, with the added acknowledgement that he doesn’t actually spend that much time with Owen, and certainly doesn’t plan on changing that given Owen’s allegiances to not only a London-based club, but _Saracens_.

And has Dylan mentioned that Owen’s a _man_?

Dylan’s straight. He knows he is. He’s never looked twice at any man in his life, except maybe out of curiosity and slight insecurity in the changing room when he was younger, and women are very much more his forte. Recently, he’s even taken to checking that this is still the case: walk past a clothing store with posters of models? Yep, he’s still straight. Get served by a conventionally attractive male waiter? Not a flicker of interest. He even went to a gay bar _by himself_ , and there was nothing. Nada.

Dylan being Dylan, he tries again. Somehow, he needs to get to the bottom of this – either work out what his sexuality actually is, or get rid of these feelings altogether. Really, he’s probably just feeling a little curious and projecting it all onto Owen simply because Owen is gay himself; transferring it all onto someone else shouldn’t be too hard.

At least, he thinks Owen is gay. He’s never really sure these days, because it has only come up once in conversation, and Owen brushed awkwardly over it – it only came up after Owen accidentally referred to an ex by a decidedly masculine name – then never mentioned it again. For all he knows, he misunderstood the exchange entirely. Maybe, Owen was joking (though the awkward flush that he still remembers, coupled with the split-second of wide-eyed panic followed by a weak, nervous chuckle, suggests otherwise).

Really, it all just adds up to another reason that he shouldn’t be projecting this onto Owen at all. If nothing else, Owen is more than five years younger than him, and Dylan’s never met another rugby player who could so easily be used as a walking definition for ‘consummate professional’. Their relationship is entirely based on what’s best for the team, truthfully.

Therefore, getting this sorted out is also what’s best for the team.

“Hi…”

At first, Dylan doesn’t register that anyone is addressing him, as caught up in his thoughts as he is. In fact, he barely hears the greeting over the pounding bass, only noticing that someone has approached him when the man slips into a seat beside him.

“Evening,” he returns, glancing briefly at the newcomer to blink in shock as he registers the short hair, the solid jaw…

The resemblance to Owen is striking.

“Are you just here for a drink, or…?”

“Not sure,” Dylan shrugs, and it takes him another second to realise that this man is attempting to chat him up. “I’m trying to work a few things out, really.”

“What sort of things?” the man leans closer, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. “Maybe I could help?”

Lips pressing together, Dylan studies him closely. The more he looks, the more differences he can see, but the haircut’s the same and the build is similar, the facial structure vaguely familiar; from certain angles, he could imagine mistaking this man for Owen at first glance.

“I’m, ah…” the man shifts closer still, and it’s so easy to layer a thick Northern accent over the top, Dylan’s interest – to his irritation – spiking immediately. “I’m already… _ready_ , if you know what I mean…”

Dylan hadn’t even thought about _that_ , but his mouth runs dry at the suggestion, the stranger’s eyes sparkling a little as he leans back, clearly aware of what sort of reaction his words must be sparking – even if he doesn’t know that Dylan’s unconsciously layering another man over the top of him, picturing Owen saying the same words (though that’s making assumptions about Owen and said teammate’s preferences that he really doesn’t want to delve into right now).

“Yeah,” he stands, decision made in a second. “I think you could help me.”

 

When Dylan wakes up the next morning, it takes him several seconds to piece together the night before – not helped by the distinct lack of anyone else in his bed and the sheer incredulity he feels at the idea that he might have had a one-night stand with a _random_ _male_ _stranger_ (or not so random) – and when everything does sink in, he has to drop an arm over his eyes and groan in frustration. Honestly, he doesn’t even know the man’s name, and he doesn’t exactly stand a chance of finding out now when, as far as he knows, they parted ways as quickly as they met afterwards. He didn’t _need_ the man’s name when there was already someone else’s on the tip of his tongue, and fuck, he’s glad he didn’t say it. That would have been a whole new level of embarrassment that doesn’t bear thinking about.

Regardless, it hasn’t helped him. If anything, he feels more certain that he is, indeed, attracted to Owen, and at that, Owen alone. He feels as straight as ever, with no interest in anyone other than the young man currently dogging his thoughts, and really, he’s not at all sure what to make of it. How can he orgasm fucking another man – the thought alone makes him wonder what the fuck was wrong with his decision-making abilities last night – imagining one of his teammates beneath him instead, and still think of himself as straight? It doesn’t work, and yet… He doesn’t like men.

Just Owen, apparently.

_For fuck’s sake…_

A moment longer, he lies in silence in bed, then it occurs to him that he should probably have a look around and check that his _guest_ didn’t take anything last night. At the very least, it would distract him from this somewhat-more-than-minor identity crisis. (Nothing’s gone, and he’s almost disappointed, because there’s nothing to keep him occupied anymore, but then he remembers that if something had gone missing, he’d have had to call the Police and explain exactly _why_ he let someone into his house at that time of night and didn’t even walk them to the door when they left. Never mind that he doesn’t know their _name_. Fuck, the media would have had a field day.)

It takes him half an hour to remember that the Lions are playing their third Test this morning, and for a moment, he wonders if he’s missed the start, but the clock reads barely past seven when he checks it, to his mixed frustration and relief, and for some _stupid_ , _stupid_ reason, he decides to text Owen good luck. None of his other teammates, not a single one. Just Owen.

The alcohol from last night must still be affecting him.

Really, Dylan doesn’t expect a response; Owen might check his phone a handful of times prior to a game – usually only as an aside when he’s setting up his music – but that’s minimal, and he certainly doesn’t reply to anything. Just Dylan’s luck, then, isn’t it, that when he’s dropping down onto the couch to watch the pre-match build-up, his phone buzzes.

_Thanks mate, hope your well_

Dylan almost manages to convince himself not to reply, getting as far as turning the screen off and moving to tuck his phone back into his pocket before he hesitates, unlocks it, and types something out, sending it before he can even reconsider what he’s written, let alone remember that texting Owen pre-match is a bad idea.

_I’m good, thanks. Smash ‘em!_

The laughing emoji he receives within a startlingly short time period is accompanied by a promise of ‘ _ttyl_ ’, and for some ridiculous reason, it’s enough to make Dylan smile as he finally tucks his phone away. Reaching up to adjust his glasses, he cracks his neck and fixes his eyes on the screen. The games are easier to watch these days than they were at the start of the tour, when he was still feeling bitter about his exclusion, the knowledge that he was surplus to requirements stinging more than a little. Still, he’s drinking in as much of it as he can, well aware that it’s at least partially rooted in an urge to make up for missing out; hopefully, Owen will be happy to talk about it the next time they’re with England – though to be entirely fair, he might be the worst choice out of all of the England lads who went. Knowing Owen, he barely even noticed that there was anything happening aside from rugby; Hask might be a better option, on reconsidering.

The thought makes him snort quietly as he settles back, worries of his sexuality fading to background noise for the time being as he tunes into the punditry. He would have liked to have gone, especially to New Zealand, but he isn’t there, and that’s that. There’s nothing he can really do about it, is there?

Honestly? The Test is little more or less than awful. There are mistakes left, right and centre; Dylan’s not sure either team deserves to win, in all honesty. Maybe that makes the draw the best result for it, or maybe it just leaves a particularly unsatisfactory aftertaste to the entire tour; Dylan can’t quite decide, even two hours later, when his phone buzzes with a reply to the post-match text he’d honestly forgotten he’d sent.

_Congrats on the draw_ , he’d written.

_Thanks, not what we wanted though_ , Owen has replied, and Dylan can almost hear the despondency in the younger man’s tone, the frustration marring his brow. Of course it’s not what Owen wanted; Owen has never wanted anything less than to win.

_It’s NZ. There was barely any time to prepare_ , he reminds carefully, but can’t resist tagging on, after he’s sent the first part, _But I know draws are disappointing_

_Disappointing is one word for it_

A wry snort escapes him when he reads that, cheek muscles tugging at one corner of his lips as he shakes his head. Owen will grouch around for the next few days, no doubt, then he’ll be back to his usual self, raring to move on and utterly scandalised to hear that he still has to take a _break_. If Dylan didn’t know that the rest of the team are likely to be happy with a draw, he’d probably check on them – especially Maro, given that the young Lock never played for the Saracens of old and has little experience of losing – but really, he suspects that they don’t need or want him hanging over their shoulders. He’s not their Captain at the moment.

As he starts on preparing himself lunch, still chatting away to Owen despite how shattered the younger man must surely be, if he’s not – the more likely option – still out partying, he can’t help but feel a little guilty. Owen trusts him, as a teammate and as a friend – enough to admit his frustrations, apparently – and here he is, having a sexuality crisis over a man he remembers playing against as a _teenager_. He’s not going to mention it, though; of course he isn’t. He isn’t even certain that Owen himself _is_ gay, never mind about to admit that he, a _straight_ man, has been admiring Owen’s arse at every opportunity for the last few weeks.

The guilt and shame fades as the conversation continues, lost to amusement as Owen’s ability to stick to the topic at hand becomes increasingly looser, his texts coming in short, rapid-fire blasts that sometimes seem entirely nonsensical, other times going off on a tangent while Dylan stares, bewildered, at the messages unfolding on his screen. Clearly, Owen’s out on the piss with his teammates – and the All Blacks as well, maybe…? Dylan can’t quite tell. What is clear is that Owen is bothering to keep texting him while presumably out for a good time; Dylan knows he shouldn’t read into it, but it’s difficult, and every time Owen responds, his cheeks ache a little more.

_should go_ , Owen tells him finally.

_dads giving me wierd looks_

_weird_

_weird?_

Biting back a laugh, Dylan scrubs a hand over his eyes.

_hask being a twat_

_boys here are fit tho_

Dylan’s gotten so used to Owen’s complete non-sequiturs that it takes him several seconds to register exactly _what_ Owen has just written; so much for not being sure if Owen’s gay – or, at the very least, bisexual. That is, of course, assuming he’s interpreted it right, and that Owen isn’t joking or pulling his leg. Perhaps Owen simply becomes a little less straight when he gets drunk; who knows? Dylan wants to take it as certain proof, but he can’t. Frustratingly, it’s really not enough.

_Have fun_ , he settles for typing back, and no response comes for the rest of the day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally back with a new chapter! One sport's season is now over for me; another's pre-season is just starting, and Sixth Form finally finished today! Only just about as much work as I'd have during term-time to do over the summer, which... yay? Hopefully, though, I'll have some more time to actually work on this - and to think about it rather than constantly stressing over my fitness levels. Like I'm going to stop doing that just because I don't have any more competitions for a few months. That's a funny idea.
> 
> Additionally, my hair now gives the impression that someone murdered a grape - and maybe a blueberry - in it, I've discovered that telling people 'I passed my first HIA yesterday!' in a really excited tone can *genuinely* get every single one of them to congratulate me before thinking to ask what an HIA is, and I've finally managed to sort out some internalised prejudice against my own gender identity which kinda snuck up on me over the last few months. Mostly. And I'm now officially allowed to compete as male in contact rugby union. So all good on that front.
> 
> Regardless, new chapter - a bit short, but it's something - and I'll leave this with asking if anyone's seen what's going down at the FINA World Aquatics Championships? It's all kicking off with Sun Yang right now, and I have to salute both Duncan Scott and Mack Horton - particularly Scott for maintaining his cool. And I'ma update the tags of this fic a little after this.

In the end, there’s only one thing for it: Google. It’s with a slightly regretful sigh that Dylan sits down to start his research, every attempt at internal reconciliation having failed, to try to find something that can explain him; everything he finds falls short, seemingly somehow inadequate, to leave him as bereft of an answer as he started – or perhaps even more confused than he was. He’s straight, and that’s the truth of it. He isn’t attracted to men, just one specific man for a reason he can’t explain.

Unfortunately, such a conclusion doesn’t help him in the slightest.

Maybe, it would be easier to pretend this doesn’t exist. If he can just forget about it, he won’t have to worry about it, and with any luck, the feelings will be long gone by the time he next sees Owen. Perhaps a few years ago, Dylan would have gone down that route. These days, he knows a few things about suppressing emotions: more than enough to be sure that such an option would be a terrible choice.

_If only_ , he thinks morosely as he stares blankly down at the latest unhelpful online forum on his phone, _that would give some clue of what to do instead._

For a brief second, a vague, foolish thought flickers to life that maybe, he could ask Owen; he crushes it immediately and ruthlessly with the reminder that not only is he not sure if Owen really is gay, but the idea would be stupid either way. He can’t imagine anything worse than trying to work this out with another person, never mind with the subject of his new and strange desires.

And, of course, Owen should be on holiday at the moment. Really, Dylan should leave him to relax in peace.

Somewhere in the middle of pre-season, with no Owen to remind him of his feelings and no new answers forthcoming – or even any time to actually think about it at all – Dylan loses his uncertainty and confusion to the back of his mind. It’s still there, buzzing away as he works and drifting forward in the handful of moments when he has nothing else to do, but those seem few and far between, and before he knows it, the season is starting up once more, catching him off-guard.

Of course, he’s facing Saracens in Round 1, and the disappointment that Owen isn’t playing can’t quite be brushed under the carpet as easily as he’d like it to be – or at all, really – even as he tries to pretend that he didn’t scan down the team Saracens named searching specifically for Owen. Certainly, there’s no fooling himself that he isn’t delighted to see Owen there anyway, sat comfortably with his teammates in a club polo shirt.

“Good game, mate,” Owen tells him slightly apologetically afterwards, and as irritated as Dylan is with Saints’ performance, never mind the points difference itself, he can’t begrudge the younger man a few words and a quick handshake, especially when accompanied by the bright beam Owen affords him.

“For your boys,” he returns wryly anyway, to a shrug of concession from Owen.

“I’m sure you’ll pick it up soon enough,” his _opponent_ offers. “Just a bit slow out of the blocks, is all – our lads have been desperate to make up for last year.”

_Ah, yes – poor Saracens and their semi-final loss._ Dylan bites back a reminder that Saints finished seventh and shrugs, settling for a pat to Owen’s upper arm before he continues on his way into the changing rooms, struggling to keep his hand from lingering on the solid muscle beneath his palm as he does so. They haven’t played well, but Owen’s right, in a way; it is the first game of the season. Really, they’d have liked a much better start, but there’s no reason they can’t pick it up from here.

In the changing rooms, he finds himself almost echoing Owen’s words to his teammates, driving the full force of his conviction into them, and is pleased to gain nods in response.

If, that night, it’s one of their opponents who comes to mind when Dylan wraps a hand around himself and closes his eyes, then none of the Saints boys need to know that. Certainly, Dylan doesn’t plan on sharing.

 

In the following weeks, Dylan struggles to make any more progress in figuring out himself, his sexuality or his attraction to Owen in particular. The only real discovery he makes is that it’s rather enjoyable to record Saracens’ matches when he can’t catch them live and just spend the entire game watching Owen whenever the younger man is on screen. Actually, no; that’s not fair. Dylan makes several discoveries, one being that he’s not _that_ fussy about men, but only so long as he can close his eyes and pretend that the cock in his mouth is Owen’s, that the man moaning and panting beneath him is a certain fly-half, and it leads to several close calls where Owen’s name almost slips out, but he manages to bite it back each time.

The first time he really does let it out is the last time he hooks up with anyone. Even as he apologises profusely to a nameless man who is, fortunately, more amused and empathetic than offended, he draws a line in his head, internally vowing that this will be the end of it. He’s not, he thinks, going to get any more answers here – and as a public figure, this activity was always particularly unwise. It’s time, he decides, to stop.

He also learns a lot about the queer community in general, seeing many things he’ll never be able to un-see and discovering far more than he thinks he ever wanted to. There are, of course, many genuinely interesting and useful pieces of information, but they all seem few and far between, and half of the answers he does find seem to leave him simply with more questions.

The one thing he sees that he really doesn’t like is the prejudice. Honestly, Dylan isn’t sure how he’s gone for so long without entirely realising how much hatred the LGBTQ+ community is subjected to, but the deeper he delves into forums and queer social media, the more stories he discovers of violence and discrimination. With each word read, his anger at it all – the cruelty, the unfairness, the hypocrisy – only grows. These people are just trying to live their lives, attempting to be happy and live without shame or fear, with no effect on anyone else, but others have decided to make it their business who loves who, and whose genitalia is whose, and innocent people have been hurt over and over – for nothing.

It’s the kids that get to Dylan the most: the kids whose parents don’t accept them, or have spent their childhoods isolated and alone at school, or – most horribly – have found a hateful world to be too much and, despite their potential, despite their bright futures and hopes and dreams, they’ve felt the need to end it all. He wants to change that, he thinks. He wants to stop anyone from ever feeling the need to take their own life because of the prejudice they face for something so innocent, so simple, as being queer.

Inevitably, his thoughts turn back to Owen. He can’t really imagine the younger man ever being on the receiving end of this kind of abuse, but surely, at some point, it must have happened. The thought only fuels his ire, his blood burning in his cheeks at the idea that someone might have done this to Owen. Dylan remembers Owen as a teenager, just starting out in the Premiership at the age of seventeen, and then making his England debut at twenty. Did he ever lie awake, stuck on everything that people must have told him – that it was wrong, that _he_ was wrong?

This assuming, of course, that Dylan is right, and Owen really is gay.

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. Either way, he wants to change it. He wants to _do_ something, to stop any of this from ever happening to anyone again.

 

 

Meeting Saracens again in October goes no better than the first time around. Dylan’s been pleased with how Saints are going, and sure, they lost last week, but their record’s been pretty good so far this season. They’re at home for the opening round of the Champions Cup, and Dylan, along with the rest of the team, is raring for victory against the current Champions and a shot at revenge. Owen’s playing, this time, a small voice notes in the back of his head, and he’s not sure the white Saracens kit suits the fly-half quite as well as Saracens’ home kit, but that’s really not what he wants to be focusing on at the start of the match, so he shoves it out of his mind.

For the most part, he doesn’t see much of Owen – just gets a few glimpses of the younger man here and there, and obviously sees Owen’s shots at goal – and he’s pleased to be successful in focusing on his own job when Owen is brought, however briefly, to his attention. It’s half an hour in that Owen decides to draw a bit more heat onto himself, and Dylan’s tempted to argue for a dangerous tackle, but he’s not sure it’s worth it, as opposed to standing back and not potentially aggravating the Ref.

“Fucking _cunt_ ,” Teimana complains viciously at his side, jaw clenched and hands tightly fisted; Dylan waves him down, aware of the need for calmness and composure with the way this match is going.

Somehow, they need to break up Saracens’ dominance, and soon. They won’t win that with fiery tempers. If the Ref wants to send Owen to the sinbin for that elbow, though, he won’t complain.

 They don’t get the yellow, which Dylan isn’t particularly surprised by, regardless of the crowd’s reaction, but he can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes a little at Owen’s ‘just try’na get ‘im off me’ excuse. _That_ , he thinks as he watches Owen straighten and turn away, wandering back to the rest of the Saracens team, _Is bullshit._

When he goes to shake Owen’s hand afterwards, he fully intends to be polite but quietly disapproving, just letting Owen see his irritation at the scuffle without, hopefully, giving away how cut up he is about the match. When he sees how serious Owen’s face still is, however, he can’t resist rolling his eyes.

“Lighten up a little,” he mutters under his breath, ensuring that his words are kept well away from his teammates’ ears. “You _thrashed_ us.”

The grin he gets in return is small but genuine, worth the acknowledgement of how much _better_ Saracens were – because it’s true, as much as it hurts right now – and Dylan can’t help but notice that it drops when Owen moves on to greet the rest of Dylan’s teammates, a fake press of the younger man’s lips rising in its place.

Sighing, he turns his focus to the next of the Saracens players who steps up, forcing a polite smile of his own for Brad Barritt, though he’s fairly sure his ex-England teammate sees right through him. Better Brad see his disappointment, though, he reckons, than that he’s been checking out one of Brad’s younger teammates. For a brief second, it vaguely occurs to him that Brad would probably know about Owen’s sexuality, that he could probably get a definite answer from the South African, but he dismisses the idea almost as quickly as it arrives with the acknowledgement that asking Brad if Owen’s gay would probably not be taken well, never mind how it would come across in terms of general weirdness factor.

Best to keep trying to work it out – or ask Owen in a few weeks, perhaps. Maybe when he’s got a better handle on what the fuck’s going on with his own sexuality.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back with another chapter on time! Or early. But the last one was early, I think, so... Eh. Slowly stretching it back to weekend-ish times. And things are going to get a bit easier on the planning front for me (at least for a brief while), and certainly very interesting to write...
> 
> Talking of interesting to write: personal statements. Really enjoying writing that, despite what all my teachers have said about it being an awful, terrible, stressful, etc. thing to do. I mean, I haven't actually done anything with it, because I'm still waiting on feedback from people on my latest draft, but... Why does everyone keep assuming that I can't write because I'm a mathematician? First my form tutor: 'Well, mathematicians can be quite short and choppy with their writing, but really, your personal statement needs to flow...' *eyes fixed dead on me* and then an English teacher who's never even taught me or held a conversation with me, 'And I'm an English teacher, so if any of you ever need any spelling checked or anything, like you mathematicians, (my name)...'  
> Like? I got 9s in both my English Lit and Language? There's a *reason* why my mean GCSE grade is high enough that my minimum target grades are A*s? 
> 
> Aaanyway. Moving on. I don't think I've mentioned this previously, but I'm absolutely loving the Rising Sons videos. Top quality from England Rugby right there - particularly Joe Marler.
> 
> But onto the actual fic, and it turns out I missed an England camp in September of 2017, but you wouldn't believe the work I did to find out the dates for the first two Autumn Internationals camps. After many, many different tabloids and online articles, plus a long scrolling session through England Rugby's twitter account which ultimately led nowhere, it was Saracens (of course) who finally provided me with a definite answer, for which I am most grateful. Bravo to the (if I do say so myself) best club in the world... ;)

There are no new epiphanies in the short time it takes for International Duty with England to roll around, and the next thing Dylan knows, he’s confronted by Owen’s wide smile, complete with a familiar crinkling of the eyes and a faint scrunching of the nose as Dylan struggles to do anything besides grin helplessly back.

“Good to see you, mate,” Owen tells him as Dylan regains himself and draws the younger man in for a brief but firm embrace, that brilliant smile dimming to something softer but still far brighter than the Fly-half’s usual sullen expression allows for.

“Same to you,” Dylan manages, and for a second, he struggles to remember what else there is to say as Owen gnaws his lower lip absent-mindedly, but then it comes forth. “We rooming?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Owen’s grin inches a little wider, then falls back to more manageable levels for Dylan within a beat, something mischievous shadowing at the edges. “You recovered from our trip to the Gardens?”

“Almost,” Dylan tells him freely, because there aren’t any of his clubmates around to hear him humour Owen – and maybe he’s mostly doing it to keep that smile going for a little longer, but no one needs to know that – and, more importantly, no Saracens besides the man standing before him to go overboard with excitable bragging. “Might’ve been if yesterday had gone alright.”

Owen grimaces, the expression conciliatory in nature – as if Saracens hadn’t absolutely thrashed London Irish – but the smile returns quickly.

“Well, we’ve got a nice week in Portugal to recover,” he nudges Dylan gently, clearly aware that the week ahead will be nothing of the sort, and Dylan can only snort wryly.

“Hey, Faz!”

…And the storm that is Saracens descends upon them, Owen turning to greet his clubmates with a smile that widens almost to the point of the one Dylan had been met with (though not, Dylan thinks, swallowing as his throat runs dry with the thought, quite as bright). A helpless grin is shot over one slightly lifted shoulder, then Owen is gone, already laughing at whatever Jamie George has to say. If that doesn’t feel like a metaphor for everything that could happen if Dylan doesn’t keep his standards up, then quite frankly, Dylan doesn’t know what would.

His mood plummets with the reminder of the inherent risk to his place on the team – his starting spot, if nothing else – and the loss of Owen’s presence, reality already flooding back to him. He doesn’t even know if Owen’s gay, he tells himself, turning to his kit to forcibly stop himself from staring after Owen’s retreating form, and certainly, he has no idea if Owen would ever be interested. Probably not – Dylan’s five years older than him, and he can only imagine that the men Owen _would_ go for must be nothing like him.

Sighing, he glances around and finds himself almost face-to-face with Courtney, fighting down his instinctive jolt of surprise to offer a brief smile instead.

“Alright, mate?”

“Yeah…” Courtney nods, eyes trailing slowly over their surroundings as he settles into a comfortable stance. “Looking forward to some hard work, I guess.”

Dylan snorts at that, Courtney’s lips twitching casually upwards, unhurried as ever, into a relaxed grin. To Dylan’s disappointment, it does nothing to him: sparks no warmth in his chest, twists no brightening smile across his own cheeks. Clearly, this is merely yet another way in which Owen affects him.

_Fantastic._

“Come on, then,” Courtney claps him on the shoulder. “Reckon I want something for the flight.”

With nothing better to do, Dylan shrugs and steps around his bags to follow Courtney over to the nearest shop.

 

Portugal is as tough as Dylan expected it to be – tougher, even. There’s a small, paranoid itch in the back of his head for the first day at least: that Eddie is watching him, that Jamie is working harder, running quicker, throwing more accurately. It takes some effort to push the constant worry away with the reminder to himself that there’s nothing he can do besides focus entirely on performing to the best of his ability, and if Eddie still decides to drop him to the bench regardless, there’s nothing he can do. The thought still surfaces almost every time he catches sight of Jamie, and Dylan finds himself moving with a new sense of determination, caught in constant purpose to be better and prove himself still worthy of the starting position. Nothing will hold him back, he tells himself. Nothing will halt him in his path to improvement and security in his role within the team.

Catching sight of Owen in the pool is enough to stop Dylan dead in his tracks, mouth running dry as his tongue glues itself to the roof and his gaze takes on a life of its own. His roommate’s eyes are lit, gleaming with delight at whatever one of their teammates has just said, and Dylan can only stand still and stare, his previous task entirely forgotten. Owen’s wearing nothing but a pair of trunks, and while technically, Dylan’s seen far more of Owen many times before, this just seems special, somehow.

Perhaps it’s the way the water slides down Owen’s bare, almost-smooth chest – and distantly, Dylan’s mind wanders off with the thought of what else could be similarly groomed, before he tugs it back into more innocent territory, willing his cheeks not to flush as he does so. Perhaps it’s the combination of the sheer joy painted across Owen’s countenance alongside the Fly-half’s state of undress. It could be the rippling of Owen’s muscles as he shifts in the water to keep himself upright and pass each ball along, or maybe it’s simply the fact that Dylan actually has the chance to stand here and take it all in, instead of Owen changing quickly and efficiently while Dylan focuses on doing the same.

It doesn’t matter, because either way, if any of his teammates – or, God forbid, Owen himself – notice, he’ll be slaughtered.

Reluctantly, he tears his eyes away, forcing himself to keep moving – and too late, spots Eddie watching him, a small, amused curve to the Australian’s lips before Eddie winks at him and moves on. Bewildered, Dylan can only stare after the coach, completely lost as to what _that_ was about and simultaneously mortified, then Owen’s cackling laugh echoes through the air and the brief interaction is entirely forgotten, shoved to the back of Dylan’s mind as he drinks the sound in then forces himself to move on.

If, at dinner that night, his eyes slide over Owen’s form, quietly recalling where the lines of his muscles had cut through pale skin, then really, no one else needs to know. After half a minute, Owen glances up, their eyes locking, and Dylan forces his own stare away, berating himself internally for the stupidity of his actions. If he’s not careful, he’ll be driven out of the team for getting too conspicuous in his attraction to Owen, long before Jamie has a chance to oust him properly.

 

Four days in, the squad has settled back into its usual equilibrium, still poring over one another’s personal lives for anything to dig out and tear apart but comfortable enough to do so outside of the confines of clubmates and particularly close friends. Dylan is more than happy to sit out the almost squad-wide discussion on partners, far from secure enough in what little he knows about that topic at the moment to be comfortable talking about it – never mind expressing the feelings that he does have at least a vague grasp on. Instead, he mostly tunes out the conversation, drifting back in occasionally at a particularly raucous shout only to fade it out once more in seconds, with the realisation that there’s still nothing particularly interesting happening. He’ll pick up the good bits within the next day, when it’s tossed around for the whole squad to hear anyway.

“Come on, Faz, there must be _at least_ _one_ girl in your life…”

Ben Youngs’ groaned words catch Dylan’s attention immediately, of course; he turns both as subtly and as quickly as he can to watch Owen’s eyes drop for a second, the Fly-half lifting them a moment later to meet Ben’s incredulous stare as he offers an almost apologetic shrug.

“Not really, mate, no,” he sighs, the bob of his Adam’s apple the only clear sign of his discomfort.

“But they’re falling all over you!” Ben gesticulates wildly, eyes blown wide as if Owen’s four words are in and of themselves blasphemous. “You could have _anyone_ , mate!”

Owen glances to the side, briefly, and Dylan finds himself caught in the act of staring, unable to look away quickly enough before Owen does so first. Owen doesn’t know, he reminds himself. Owen thinks he’s straight.

“I guess I’m just not…” Owen trails off, shrugging as a hand lifts to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck, and glances over his Saracens teammates, clustered around him as usual.

At once, Jamie George – squeezed right up against Owen with two Vunipola brothers taking up the rest of the couch – jumps in, digging a sharp elbow into Owen as he speaks.

“You know Faz – married to the game.”

Around him, his clubmates – Owen’s clubmates – laugh, Maro jumping in with a comment of his own, and Dylan realises how often this happens: someone presses a little into Owen’s love-life, one of Owen’s clubmates makes a joke about him and rugby, and the rest follow it up. Simple. Easy. A complete deflection if ever Dylan saw one, only no one else has noticed because, just like he used to, they aren’t paying close enough attention. Certainly, no one sees the way Owen slumps back a little, a hint of a smile playing at his own lips, or notices how easily he bares the merciless teasing – even the rather more… intimate and, dare Dylan say it, downright _weird_ suggestions.

As soon as the conversation has shifted entirely away from him, Owen turns to Jamie to mutter something quietly, and from Dylan’s position, it’s easy to read his lips:

“ _Thanks, Jinx._ ”

Honestly? Dylan doesn’t know what to do with this new-found knowledge. Abruptly, his thoughts return to the prejudice that he’s becoming increasingly aware of – the horror and indignation that stems from it all proportional, it seems, to that awareness – with the thought of what, specifically, could have Owen so desperate to avoid being outed that his teammates are immediately ready to jump in and bail him out when he needs it. Is it the fear of simply being worn down by repetitive ‘banter’, or even outright abuse? Is it the thought of more extreme acts, or of the media’s reaction if they heard rumours? Even what the fans could say, or do?

_Or maybe_ , Dylan thinks distantly, _It’s simply life-long conditioning to keep it quiet, hidden – a shameful, or potentially risky, secret._

It does no good to attempt to analyse Owen’s thought process in not coming out; it’s not really any of Dylan’s business, as much as he’d like it to be. Instead, he pushes it out of his mind as his teammates start to head up to their respective rooms, standing himself to walk a little way behind a flood of Saracens players, plus Elliot. Owen isn’t really visible, but that doesn’t stop Dylan from savouring the few glimpses he does get.

For the majority of the evening, Owen scrolls through his phone, stretched out on his front on his own bed, and Dylan does his level best to pretend that he’s doing anything other than watching Owen out of the corner of his vision, appreciating the rigid muscle and smooth curves on display. Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem to be doing a brilliant job, because Owen starts glancing over at him, appearing increasingly unsettled, until the Fly-half’s phone screen turns off without Owen really seeming to notice.

Dylan hesitates for several more minutes after that, stuck between finally having the confidence to start a conversation on this topic and worry over Owen’s reaction if he has completely missed the mark. The exchange he caught between Owen and Jamie earlier has bolstered his confidence; he’s now surer than ever that Owen really is gay. Besides that, he did tell himself a week ago that if he didn’t have any more answers by the time he got to November, he’d have a go at asking Owen.

_Fuck it_ , he tells himself. _What’s the worst that could happen?_

“Faz,” he starts before he can change his mind and back out. “You mind if I ask a question?”

There is no going back now, as Owen’s head lifts slowly, eyes dragging away from his dark phone screen.

“Sure?” he hedges, a crease forming gradually in his brow, and Dylan has to suck in a breath, fighting down the last of his nerves and setting his jaw.

If he upsets Owen by asking, it will be for a day at max. If he doesn’t ask and simply assumes, who knows what could happen?

At any rate, he can’t back out, because Owen is watching him expectantly – almost nervously – and Dylan can only wonder what this hesitation must seem like to him.

“You’re… gay, right?”

There. He’s said it. Now, all he has to do is sit and watch Owen blink, waiting as the younger man’s frown deepens with confusion, which tells Dylan absolutely nothing. On second thoughts, the wait for an answer is so much worse than asking the question. It’s just that all control is taken out of Dylan’s hands, with no way of escaping any longer. Probably, it’s better that way, when he can’t take an easy route out.

“Yeah,” Owen nods, and thank _fuck_ for that.

Relaxing subtly, Dylan does his best not to let relief shine through on his face – or any sort of hope, because ‘gay’ is very much not synonymous with ‘potentially interested’,

“Why?” Owen adds, which is more worrying, because now Dylan has to come up with something more than, ‘I’ve been fucking men and imagining they were you’.

Somehow, he doesn’t think that would go down well – with Owen _or_ the Saracens players whom Owen would likely go to in order to talk about it.

For several seconds, he wracks his brain for any sort of excuse, coming up eventually with the realisation that he hasn’t actually gotten any answers out of Owen that would be useful to his ongoing sexuality crisis (because he refuses to let the knowledge that Owen is attracted to men be considered ‘useful’, only… _good to know_ ).

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, is the English saying, isn’t it?

“Is…” he trails off, aware that it’s unfair to expect Owen to be any more of an expert on sexuality than any of their straight teammates, but that’s the way society works right now. “Is it possible to be straight but interested in a man? Or gay and interested in a woman?”

The way that Owen tilts his head, elongating his neck as he does so, is entirely unsporting, in Dylan’s opinion. For too long, his gaze gets stuck on the bared skin, his throat running dry, and if Owen hadn’t been hesitating, he’d certainly have missed the answer.

“I don’t know,” is the initial response, which is disappointing, but probably to be expected; Owen, to his surprise, continues. “I mean, you can be bi… And I don’t think that has to be 50-50? But I don’t…”

Quietly, Owen sighs, pulling an almost apologetic face.

“I don’t know,” he finishes.

Well, that’s more than Dylan can really ask from Owen, in any reasonable sense – and certainly, it’s more optimistic than the outright ‘no’ he’d half been expecting. Nodding in consideration, he tries to work out if there’s anything more he wants to ask, but ultimately decides not to push his luck. It’s better not to test Owen’s patience, he thinks, and instead save his other questions for a different time, when he has more blood in his head instead of being occupied with the images that both Owen’s confirmation of his sexuality and position on the bed are conjuring up.

Standing with his hips twisted just far enough away from Owen to hide anything that might become visible, he lifts his arms in an attempt to stretch out his back.

“Right,” he manages, a large yawn splitting his jaw seconds later, then, because he’s feeling brave, adds, “You’re single at the moment, aren’t you, Faz?”

Owen’s nod is strangely hurried as the younger man blushes scarlet, and Dylan has to take a moment to wonder at the reaction even as he takes a subtle step towards the bathroom and freedom to stop twisting his body at an awkward angle.

“Haven’t really…” Owen chews his bottom lip, the action apparently unconscious, “Met anyone recently.”

“Right,” Dylan coughs quickly, deciding that it’s definitely best to get to the bathroom before his brain layers that image over too many memories of his recent one-nighters. “I’m going to go to bed, alright, mate?”

It almost feels as though Owen’s eyes are glued to his back as he makes his escape from the room, but particularly given his current _situation_ , Dylan doubts it’s anything more than his imagination. What is he, though – a horny teenager? Somehow, he needs to find a way out of this before it gets too bad, and honestly, he’s struggling to think rationally enough to weigh up which way it would be better to resolve it. Unfortunately, in Owen’s presence, that doesn’t seem to be a problem which is about to alleviate itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More notes! You thought you'd gotten rid of me, right? Just wanted to mention how interesting it is to change my writing subtly for Dylan - and how weird it feels to give it that extra sexual edge? That was definitely not something I had the confidence for in YBWM - which we've reached the start of now (how exciting!) - and getting the chance to approach this from a different character's perspective, having not really used Dylan's PoV for more than one-chapter pieces, has definitely been a huge plus point. I guess I tend to think of Dylan as the more confident of the pair, and that's kind of coming across? I'd really like to know what people think about that, is what I'm getting at here, to be honest...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand... I'm back. Because I can't resist waiting to post a chapter after I've finished it, apparently, even when it's probably in my best interests to save it for the weekend. 
> 
> I've basically finished my Physics for the summer! And my Further Maths! (And my Maths was finished on the very first day, because to be honest, it really wasn't hard...) And that leaves just my Psych... And my revision for all subjects... And all these ridiculous Physics practice papers that my teacher set me... And actually having a holiday... And researching for an EPQ (Link to my survey, because yes, I'ma keep promoting that, is: https://forms.gle/SD6d96LxqJooJrnr9 )... And just ignore this, because I'm honestly complaining far too much right now. I'm actually on top of things, I've had a few days of not working, I'm slowly regaining my fitness and England stand a chance this Autumn! 
> 
> And I have a new chapter. Which I'm actually going to leave posting for... Eh, about an hour and a half. Because a) I actually still need to run through and potentially edit it, and b) I'ma wait until Eddie's announced his squad in case I have a really pressing desire to comment on it. ...And I don't think there's anything particularly big about it, so I'm not going to wait for the conference. Enjoy! (I hope...)

In hindsight, offering to give Owen a massage might have been a bad idea. Certainly, with the younger man spread out on the mattress beneath him, firm muscles loosening gradually under hands that Dylan could take wherever he wants – in reason – he’s very conscious of just how badly wrong this could go if he can’t keep his mind on task. Maybe, somewhere in the back of his head, he was hoping something would go wrong when he offered, if only to force himself to come clean to Owen.

As it is, he very much hates that part of his mind right now.

Sighing as quietly as he can, he turns his hands to a new stretch of Owen’s back, the closest he’s been to Owen’s arse – and the closest he’ll allow himself to get – then bites his lip at the small sound Owen makes, apparently unnoticed by the Fly-half himself. For a second, his eyes flicker downwards, to the smooth curve of exactly what he’s trying not to pay too much attention to, and he makes the executive decision to leave Owen’s back and move on to his legs, where there’s less risk of his hands slipping inappropriately and his hips don’t have to press against some part of Owen’s body. At the very least, he’d rather Owen didn’t feel his growing erection.

Some time later, Owen sucks in a sharp, pained breath, his entire body tensing visibly as his calf stiffens to rigidity under Dylan’s fingertips, and Dylan stills his hands immediately, waiting to see if Owen wants to say something. When nothing comes, he clears his throat gently.

“Alright?” he checks, letting his hands settle on Owen’s leg, the muscle warm and firm.

Owen shifts a little, almost as if his position is uncomfortable – perhaps he’s been lying on his front for too long – jaw tensing visibly.

“Yeah,” he responds, which is clearly a lie, but Dylan lets it pass, easing up his massage but not stopping altogether.

Quietly, Owen sighs, then twists a little to look at him, Dylan forcing himself to wait for a beat before looking up to find Owen propped on his elbows, staring straight back. For several long seconds, their gazes lock, and Dylan tries to work out what Owen’s thinking, but he can’t read anything besides some sort of uncertain contemplation. Eventually, he turns his attention back to Owen’s legs, feeling his roommate settle slowly back into position, and tries not to over-analyse the short, silent interaction.

An hour or so later, Owen on the phone with his father outside in the shared part of their suite, Dylan closes his eyes and allows the fantasies of where that could have led to spring forth as shower water pours down over him. He can practically see Owen arching beneath him, hear the breathy moans, the stifled gasps, and though it’s unlikely to happen, it’s easy to pretend in this moment.

(That, of course, doesn’t stop the guilt that spreads through him in the seconds afterwards, and when he finally emerges from the bathroom to find Owen just wrapping up his call with his dad, his shame only grows. This has to end. One way or another, it has to end.)

 

Over the next few days, Dylan watches Owen and waits for a chance, trying to work out what he’ll actually say when that time comes along. On some level, he knows, he has to come clean about this. The only problem is, how much does he come clean about? It’s all very well deciding that he needs to be honest with Owen, but that doesn’t mean he wants to go into the fine detail of all the men he’s layered Owen’s image on top of, for example. That, he thinks, would certainly be too much.

Unfortunately, watching Owen often means watching Jamie George, and each time Dylan sees the younger man, he’s reminded that Jamie is a Lion, a good deal younger than him, from a more successful club and with a lot less history in terms of discipline. It also doesn’t escape his notice how close Owen and Jamie are, and he knows he’s just projecting his rugby problems onto a normal friendship, but that doesn’t help, because no, he actually doesn’t _know_. Owen never talks about his love-life, and for all Dylan could know, Owen’s in a very settled relationship with Dylan’s rival for the position of starting Hooker.

Eventually, he remembers that Owen himself confirmed being single, but that doesn’t stop him doubting, and it certainly doesn’t stop him from remembering the pressure on him to be better every time he glances over to find Owen leaning into Jamie’s shoulder to support himself as his entire face lights up with brilliant laughter, his body curling in as if in an unconscious attempt to pull his emotions back into himself, away from everyone else.

In truth, Dylan’s too distracted to feel much more than a day’s sting from the game against Argentina, and perhaps that’s just as well, because on Tuesday, he gets his chance. Owen’s body is arched over his roller, his shirt riding a little up his hip, and Dylan’s eyes keep dragging themselves back to the smooth stretch of skin despite his best efforts, his mind occupied with thoughts of inching that fabric further up, revealing everything that lies beneath it – and the rest of Owen’s clothing, too.

The room is quiet, no one about to interrupt their solitude when everyone is so tired themselves, and it’s a reasonably logical decision to take a quick swig of water then cough quietly to clear his throat and draw in a breath.

“Faz?” he starts a few minutes after Owen has settled into an almost-sitting position on the carpet to roll out his legs, hands supporting his full weight, and struggles for what else to say as Owen’s head drops back and round to look at him, a small, non-verbal acknowledgement slipping from parted lips.

He’s got Owen’s attention. That’s a good start, in theory. The problem now, Dylan supposes, is that he has no idea what to do with that attention.

Perhaps, the best place to start would be with some more answers for himself. At least that gets them onto the right topic, and will hopefully help him in the long run.

“Look, this may come off wrong,” he hedges carefully, blowing out a breath when Owen’s brow creases instantly; causing such immediate tension was not his original plan. “There’s…”

He trails off, hurriedly rewording what he wants to say, and continues only when he’s satisfied.

“I wanted to ask something – if I’m stepping over a line, just let me know. I just…” he grimaces, well aware that Owen staring at him with something akin to worry in the younger man’s gaze, his arms rigid where they still take the majority of his weight. “How… did you know you were gay?”

Owen blinks at him, apparently non-plussed, though the tension disappears immediately from the younger man’s body language.

“Well…” Owen begins, and stops there, eyes tracking sideways as he appears to search for any sort of explanation. “I – I just knew I liked guys.”

There’s something shrewd in the gaze that lands on Dylan once more, something that tells Dylan he’s being – at least partially – sussed out.

“So it wasn’t just one guy?” Dylan attempts to keep the attention off himself even as he searches for more answers.

“I mean…” Owen’s teeth find his bottom lip for a second, his hand rising to his eyes as he continues, a breath blown out through his speech. “There was at first – then more. There was… _one_ , I was willing to admit that I – you know – to myself… But he probably wasn’t the first.”

It’s clear that Owen’s a little frustrated with himself for not managing to supply something more coherent, and after a second, his frown deepens.

“I _know_ , looking back,” he corrects, “That he wasn’t the first.”

Slowly, Dylan nods to show his consideration of this information, trying to work out if he’s ever looked at any other men like he keeps catching himself looking at Owen, but there’s nothing. He’s already tried that so many times, testing himself over and over. It isn’t going to work just because Owen’s said it.

“Why?” Owen asks, and there’s a hint of something that seems gut-wrenchingly like hope in his voice. “Are you –” he stops, then starts again. “Do you –”

Isn’t that just the million-dollar question? Pulling a face, Dylan can only shrug. He isn’t actually looking at Owen, he registers, so much as watching in his peripheral vision. It feels easier, somehow, to have this conversation without looking Owen in the eye.

“I don’t know,” he admits quietly: the simple, honest truth. “Why that guy in particular?”

Owen mirrors his shrug; the action must be uncomfortable, what with Owen still arched to see Dylan, one leg bending and straightening to keep the roller moving lightly under it. If Dylan had to guess, he’d say Owen hasn’t really noticed that he’s doing it.

“Well,” the Fly-half licks his lips, “It was someone I got on well with, so… It panicked me less.”

The slightly anxious breath echoes in Dylan’s ears: almost a laugh, but too uncertain, too nervous for that, and Owen’s eyes are drifting sideways, turning unconsciously to the door and, Dylan thinks, the corridor beyond. Then, in the corner of his vision, Owen’s eyes flicker back towards him, blue flashing slightly as it moves, but Dylan doesn’t look, just keeps staring to the side of Owen’s head.

“If it hadn’t been him, I probably would have talked to him about it… But it was,” Owen’s shoulders twitch a little, “So… I talked to him anyway, actually.”

There’s a brief hint of a smile, and Dylan can only think of one person Owen would be talking about.

“He was alright with it,” Owen adds.

“Ford,” Dylan fills in quietly, finally turning his gaze to look at Owen, who blinks at him in obvious surprise.

Of course Ford would be Owen’s kind of man: nothing like Dylan, aside from an eagerness to throw himself around a field with a squashed football.

The thing is, it _is_ surprising, because of the few clues Dylan’s been picking apart in recent months to determine Owen’s sexuality, none of them point to Ford, of all people, being Owen’s type. If anything, Dylan would have guessed it did swing more in his favour. It’s the one reason he’s kept some form of hope up.

“Er…”

Owen’s face is so incredibly easy to read; Dylan can see his hesitation, his temptation to deny it, and then his whole body deflates a little, and he ducks his head.

“Yeah – it was awkward. But he was fine when I told him he wasn’t really my…”

Hope swells inside him as he examines Owen, taking in the slightly awkward bitten lip and the averted eyes.

“Not your type, right?” he presses quietly, then, because he has to be sure, adds, “How do you know he’s not if you liked him?”

For a moment, Owen stares at him, then the younger man looks away, towards his legs, lips twisting a little.

“All the other guys have been…” he hesitates, apparently searching for the right word, and twists himself back towards Dylan, “ _Different_ to him.”

“Like how?” Dylan pushes, and he knows he’s going too far, but right now, he just needs to know.

“Bigger,” Owen tells him straight up, and Dylan watches the Fly-half’s cheeks flush as if in realisation of what he’s just said and how it sounds but it’s what Dylan was hoping for, so he’s hardly about to judge. “I mean – I’m not – It’s…”

Owen looks cute when flustered; there’s no other way to describe it. His cheeks are glowing crimson, his fingers curling a little in the carpet, and there’s a hint of mortified panic in his eyes that entirely overemphasises the situation. Honestly, Dylan’s hard-pressed not to outright laugh, and Owen seems to realise that, because he stops with a quiet breath.

‘Bigger’ can mean a lot of things, though – and of course, Dylan is more than willing to take the opportunity to tease Owen a little bit more about this.

“Like Hask big?” he asks, unable to stop a grin from spreading across his face at the expression Owen responds with.

For a second, his roommate appears about to say something, then clear thinks better of it and bites his lip.

“More like Jinx.”

That’s nothing if not a mood killer, though, of course, Owen won’t know that. Dylan fights to maintain his cheerful countenance as he considers the information, running back over everything he’s seen over the last few days. Maybe Owen lied about being single; if George isn’t out, then Owen wouldn’t want to risk slipping up. Perhaps, he’s merely interested in George.

“Jinx,” he echoes slowly, watching Owen’s expression for any clues. “Are you…?”

He can’t finish the question, but he tries again as Owen’s brow creases in confusion.

“Is Jinx…?”

Instantly, Owen’s eyes widen.

“ _No_!” he blurts out, cheeks flushing redder by the second as he swings himself around to face Dylan properly, his roller all but forgotten in the vehemence of his denial. “Not Jinx. Just… around his size.”

Yet again, Owen’s teeth dig into his lip.

“General… _Hooker_ size, I guess,” he tags on, then, apparently desperate to change the subject, asks, “What about you?”

Owen’s spent so long being honest with him that it would be outright discourteous to refuse now, Dylan thinks. Admittedly, he also started this conversation with the intention of telling Owen eventually, but he’s really not ready for that.

“I don’t know,” he confesses, keeping himself relaxed through the reminder that, out of the two of them, Owen seems to be finding this conversation a lot more difficult anyway. “There’s only been one guy. That’s why I was asking the other day – remember? Describing him would probably give him away.”

“Oh,” Owen swallows visibly, and Dylan’s definitely imagining the disappointment in his tone. “So… I know him?”

Yes, Owen knows him. Despite himself, Dylan feels his lips twitch a little, and he has to bite down on his smile, though judging by the flicker of Owen’s gaze across his face, he hasn’t really succeeded.

“Fairly well, I reckon,” he confirms, aware that this is his chance but not quite able to get the words out.

Slowly, Owen nods and glances away to swallow again.

“Do you know if he’s…?”

“He’s gay,” Dylan tells him, finally able to say it confidently after months of doubting, and Owen shifts a little, eyes darting up almost to Dylan’s own but not quite. “Pretty definitely…”

“Oh,” Owen mutters, and the frown marring his features deepens all the more. “And… I know him fairly well…?”

“Very well.”

Dylan leans back to take Owen in properly, watching the nervous shift and the avoidance of his gaze. Owen knows; he has to, after everything Dylan’s said. Never mind that Dylan’s likely failed to be particularly subtle over the last few weeks, he’s been downright obvious this last half hour, and Owen’s body language tells Dylan that the younger man’s more than aware of it.

“Don’t make me say it, Faz,” he sighs, Owen tensing but not looking up, then shaking his head after a second.

“I don’t –” Owen’s cheeks flush darker with each word. “I don’t know…”

Owen doesn’t want to say it, and that could be because he doesn’t want to risk getting it wrong, but it could also be because he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. Dylan himself isn’t sure he wants to risk going any further, the earlier teasing seeming a long time ago now as the weight of the situation presses down on him.

It’s just that he’s come too far to back down now, and if he leaves the silence stretching on much longer, his remaining courage will only drain all the more.

“Fuck’s sake…” he blows out a breath, steeling himself for whatever reaction Owen might have. “One of us has to say it – you, Faz. Happy?”

Owen’s brief jerk of a nod takes him by surprise, seeming more a response to Dylan’s own question than an acknowledgement of words he’d likely expected to hear. Maybe, that’s just Dylan’s imagination taking over to get his hopes up, but fuck, he hopes it’s not.

“I –” Owen cuts himself off, a disbelieving grin spreading across his face for a moment before it disappears, and even now, Dylan can’t quite tell if that’s a good or bad reaction. “You want to get a drink some time…?”

 _Thank fuck_. Dylan has never been more relieved to hear something in his life.

“Outside of Pennyhill?” Owen adds, but Dylan barely hears it as Owen’s earlier words come back to him – ‘general Hooker size’.

He echoes them aloud as Owen finally glances up at him, amusement colouring his tone as relief floods his chest, and Owen, if possible, blushes all the more.

“Yeah, sounds good,” he finds himself agreeing, the words seeming almost to come from elsewhere as Owen’s sparkling eyes meet his. “Tomorrow evening?”

Owen’s beam, bright and hopeful, is everything Dylan could possibly have wished for. This is happening. This is really happening.

“Works for me,” Owen agrees, a note of almost helpless laughter in his words as delight stretches his lips ever wider, and _shit, this is happening_.

 

Wednesday evening finds Dylan sitting across from Owen, the younger man having finally escaped his clubmates to join Dylan at this café, and now, here they sit, sharing quiet smiles over coffee as the gentle hum of outside traffic calms their racing hearts. At some point, Dylan knows, one of them will have to strike up conversation, but for now, this is comfortable, exactly what they both need while they internally convince themselves that this really is happening.

Owen’s cheeks are flushed again, but the glow is softer, more a delicate pink than a mortified red; if they hadn’t been inside for a good ten minutes already, Dylan could almost believe it was an after effect of the cold winds beyond the café doors. At some point, he thinks absently, he’ll have to let Owen know how attractive he is in his more awkward moments, but probably, that’s something best left for a few months.

Here’s hoping that they make it to ‘a few months’.

“So,” Dylan starts quietly, Owen looking immediately up, “Is your type _really_ Hookers, or…?”

Huffing a laugh, Owen rolls his eyes and glances away, but there’s a grin forming alongside the embarrassment, and his foot nudges Dylan’s beneath the table.

“Shut up,” he mutters, shrugging a moment later. “I don’t know. Kind of – definitely for the last few months.”

There’s a shy grin, at that, and Dylan returns it, helpless to do anything but.

“Last few months?” he repeats. “Is that how long…?”

“I’ve been into you?” Owen fills in, nodding. “Thereabouts. I felt bad about it, obviously, because I thought you were…”

Owen waves a hand and lifts a shoulder, Dylan snorting softly.

“Little did you know…”

Owen laughs outright at that, shaking his head as he settles back in his seat to watch Dylan with quiet contentment.

“Little did I know,” he agrees. “What about you?”

“I…” Dylan shrugs, grimacing. “I missed you over the summer, but… I noticed it around the time I started thinking you looked better in England kit than the Lions’.”

Owen’s eyebrows shoot upwards at that, his head tilting in obvious curiosity.

“It’s the shorts,” Dylan feels as though he has to explain, even as Owen’s lips twitch upwards. “They fit differently. It’s like…”

“You’ve been looking at my arse, is what you’re saying,” Owen teases, though there’s a quieter satisfaction in his gaze as it locks onto Dylan’s.

“Maybe,” Dylan concedes easily, then, because he’s known Owen for years, even if this is new, decides that he’s comfortable to add, “…It’s nice.”

For a moment, Owen’s brow creases in confusion.

“Your arse,” Dylan clarifies, delighting in the return of Owen’s blush, and doesn’t bother to hold back his chuckle as Owen shakes his head, trying and failing to hide his own laughter in the form of trembling shoulders.

“Careful,” Owen manages to warn finally, following several coughs to regain his composure. “My clubmates get pretty protective.”

“They do?” Dylan cocks his head, interested. “Like older brothers?”

“I’m younger than Jinx, Mak, Kruiso…” Owen lists off, lifting a shoulder as his grin settles into something quieter, his eyes still fixed directly on Dylan. “They’re not about to go around threatening the lads’ girls, so it all comes out on my…”

He shrugs again, Dylan nodding in understanding and just a little wariness. The last thing he wants right now is a pack of Saracens hounding after him.

“I’ll keep an eye out,” he assures, nudging Owen’s foot where it still rests against his own.

“Yeah?” Owen shifts forward. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

Slowly, carefully, Dylan lets his hand drop to rest beside Owen’s, their fingers brushing in a subtle enough gesture not to give away the real reason for their two-man outing, but with clear intention between the two of them. Briefly, Owen’s eyes flicker down, then his smile starts to tug at his lips a little more, and when he meets Dylan’s gaze again, his voice is lowered.

“You want to head back to our room?” he asks quietly, and there’s no mistaking the suggestion there.

“Owen Farrell, leaving a coffee unfinished?” Dylan teases, but he’s already standing, fishing out a couple of notes to leave on the table and holding up a hand when Owen opens his mouth to protest. “You can pay next time, if you really want.”

Slowly, Owen closes his mouth and nods.

“Next time,” he agrees, the words barely a murmur as he slips around the table to fall into step beside Dylan, their shoulders brushing as they head for the door.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, er... Back with the final chapter? And a warning that I might be a bit quiet in the next month or so - or not, if I end up using this for stress release and my old friend procrastination - because my wonderful sixth form (admittedly, I'm not sure I can complain, because I did choose to go to it...) has decided that 'end of Year 12' exams are for the start of Year 13, so I have 7 exams from the 9th to the 13th which will help to determine what predicted grades unis see and probably whether Oxford will even bother reading my personal statement. No, I'm not stressed. Of course not. (I'm behind on revision, I still have other things to do that my teachers have set over the summer as compulsory extra work, I have to sort out MAT and STEP practice and application, I have an extended project to do - here, have a link to a survey: https://forms.gle/Dhk454kZJDu53HaG8 - and work out whether to deliberately out myself before I stop bothering to pass perfectly for every single day of my A-Levels... somebody help me...)
> 
> And I really just want to watch the World Cup instead of all the work I know I'll have to do this Autumn. Because I really have my priorities sorted. 
> 
> Anyway, hope this isn't too, ah... cringey? (Or as Joe Marler would say - not too much cheese. Because he doesn't like cheese. Well, he does like cheese, but he's talking about real cheese...)

Waking up to a handsome younger man wandering naked around his room with an unusual amount of unabashed confidence for someone so usually closed off is not, Dylan has to admit, an experience he can ever say he’s had before. It is, however, one he thinks he’s rather partial to, and certainly one he’d like to repeat in future.

Settling back with his fingers laced behind his head, he watches Owen search for the clothes that Dylan had tugged from his body the night before, taking in the lines of muscle – the subtle dips and ripples beneath the skin as Owen moves – with a lazy assuredness that he only ever dreamed of being afforded previously. Though he plans to hold off on it for as long as possible, he knows that, at some point, he’ll have to get up. It’s early, but he’ll have to make time for a shower before breakfast, and undoubtedly, Owen will want one too.

Of course, they _could_ share, but Dylan doubts that such a strategy would result in any time saved.

Seeming to notice Dylan’s eyes on him, Owen twists around, cocking his head with a quizzical frown.

“What?” he asks, apparently amused.

“Nothing,” Dylan shrugs, letting his eyes rake their way deliberately over Owen’s bared form. “Just…”

He glances back up to meet Owen’s eyes, offering a wink as he does so.

“Not every day I’m treated to this.”

Owen huffs, rolling his eyes, but the grin already stretching across his face betrays him. Dylan watches him turn away to hide it, slightly disappointed to lose sight of that expression but equally appreciative of the new view he gets, and has to chuckle at the reaction.

“Fuck off,” Owen mutters, ducking his head. “Or it won’t happen again.”

“Alright,” Dylan coughs, biting down a little on his smile. “I’m behaving.”

The small grin Owen throws over his shoulder entirely negates his previous words, though it falls as he glances at the time.

“You want the shower first?” he offers, Dylan shaking his head.

“You take it,” he assures.

For a beat, Owen’s eyes flicker over him, then the younger man nods, turning away. Dylan watches him go, unable to help the smug satisfaction that rises inside his chest, then pushes himself up to get ready for the day ahead. It’s only when he gets into the bathroom for his own shower that he notices the dark mark on his collar bone: just low enough to be hidden by his clothes, but high enough that if he isn’t careful, it could become visible. Vividly, he remembers the mischievous glint in Owen’s eyes, before the Fly-half’s lips had trailed down his neck to nip and suck at that same patch of skin.

_Bastard._

When he’s finally ready to head down for breakfast, Owen is waiting for him, hair still slightly damp from his own shower.

“You,” Dylan starts flatly, pulling down his collar to point to the hickey, “Are going to pay for this.”

“Didn’t you like it?” Owen fires back, trying half-heartedly for innocent but far too pleased with himself to even dream of pulling it off. “Least I didn’t do it higher.”

“I’d make you explain it,” Dylan grumbles, but it’s easy to tug Owen in for a kiss and leave it there; he has too much residual satisfaction from the last two days to hold a grudge against his Vice Captain-turned-potential boyfriend…?

Perhaps he should check that one.

“This is a thing, isn’t it?” he asks, blunt because there’s no other way to do it, and Owen’s brow creases. “Us?”

“Oh!” Owen blinks, frown deepening for a second. “Yes…? I – Right?”

“Chur,” Dylan murmurs, leaning in for another chaste kiss, and Owen relaxes. “Are we too old to be boyfriends?”

“Speak for yourself,” Owen snorts, and Dylan has to laugh at that. “What else? Partners is just…”

“Yeah…”

Dylan can do nothing but pull a face at that, letting his agreement pass silently.

“…Boyfriends it is.”

_Yeah_ , Dylan decides as Owen tucks his key-card in his pocket and opens the door. ‘ _Boyfriends’ is good enough._

In the doorway, Owen pauses, shoulders trembling, and Dylan peers around to see if he’s alright, only to realise that the younger man is trying to suppress laughter.

“Alright there?” he presses, and Owen cracks one eye open, biting his lip, then falls back against the open door to laugh aloud, body twisting with the force of it.

Bemused, Dylan can only watch and wait as Owen ducks his head into his shoulder and tries to calm himself.

“Just… The two of us,” comes the choked explanation finally. “Like fucking… _teenagers_.”

Dylan shakes his head in wry amusement, his own grin spreading across his face as Owen finally regains composure, and when his _boyfriend_ ’s laughter has been successfully quelled, he peers out into the corridor to make sure there’s no one else around before stepping forward to press Owen back into the door and kiss him. Owen’s lips are as warm as they were last night – and five minutes ago – and they part easily as Dylan settles a palm against the wood behind Owen to keep himself steady. His other hand falls to Owen’s waist as strong arms snake their way over his shoulders to link behind his neck, and it’s with a reluctance that he can’t quite hide that he pulls away to meet Owen’s eyes.

The grin he receives tells him that the gesture was very much appreciated, but a second later, Owen glances down at his watch and pulls a face.

“We really need to get going,” the Fly-half sighs, Dylan stepping away at Owen’s light push. “Make sure you pull up your collar, yeah?”

With one last, mischievous grin, Owen’s gone, leaving Dylan to stare down the corridor at his retreating back – or not his _back_ , as such – and wonder exactly what he’s gotten himself into.

Whatever it is, he really doesn’t think he minds.

 

 

 

 

“Listen up, lads!”

It takes only a handful of seconds for conversations to cease and eyes to turn in the direction of the call to attention, but that brief moment is enough to dry Dylan’s throat, his tongue gluing itself firmly to the roof of his mouth as he takes in the multitude of stares trained entirely on him. Coughing nervously, he attempts to swallow and fails, unable to shake the faint wish that Owen could be here, just to offer moral support or maybe do it for Dylan, because surely, having done it so many times, Owen must have perfected this conversation. Unfortunately, Owen isn’t here – and probably, that’s for the best given exactly who Dylan is addressing – so it’s up to him and him alone to make it through this and field any and all reactions, both of the good and bad variety.

“There’s something I need – would like to tell you all,” he manages to croak out, and this time succeeds in swallowing.

 It’s a credit to his teammates that none of them try to crack a joke, apparently all picking up on his serious mood. Less fortunately, however, it’s simply thickening the atmosphere, tension growing in the sudden dampness of Dylan’s palms and the agitated flicker of one finger against his thigh.

“Before I do, though… There’s just one thing I’d like to clear up, before you make any assumptions,” Dylan attempts a nervous smile, though he’s fairly sure it falls flat; he’s not ready for this at all, but it’s far too late to go back, and hopefully, the aftermath will all be worth this stress.

_Hopefully, indeed._

“To be honest, you’ll probably get a good idea of what I’m going to say from this…”

The remains of his smile falter and die as he twists the hem of his shirt anxiously in one hand. Never in his life has he been so terrified of a few simple sentences, and now, he more than understands why Owen always kept it quiet. If you’re mostly single, there’s really no point in putting yourself through this fear and apprehension – and Dylan really is _both_ fearful and apprehensive.

“You’re not moving to Tigers, are you?” Courtney asks, and Dylan’s cheeks twitch once more as the changing room echoes with soft chuckles. “Not going to be worse than that, Skip.”

“No,” Dylan concedes, though Courtney surely can’t say for certain that it won’t be worse: not without knowing, though Dylan doesn’t really expect any problem from any of his teammates. “No, I’m not.”

Rocking briefly up onto his toes, he clasps his hands behind his back and tries not to think too hard about exactly what he’s about to reveal to them.

“Just… Bear in mind that I’m not _actually_ gay, alright?” he hears come out of his own mouth, and knows instantly that the words sound ridiculous; James snorts.

“Well, that convinced us.”

Dylan’s grin is helpless, a mixture of sheer relief at the jovial lack of judgement in his teammate’s tone and appreciation of James’ point; almost apologetically, he shrugs.

“I’m not,” he insists all the same. “I still like women mostly. It’s just that currently… I’m in a relationship with a man. And have been since last November.”

Now, to let that sink in before he drops perhaps the biggest bombshell.

Honestly, it’s so difficult just to wait through the long, drawn-out pause as his friends and colleagues digest the news and work out their own thoughts and feelings on it, but with the aid of a bitten cheek, Dylan stays silent and lets them chew it over.

“So… You’re not gay?” Alex checks, and Dylan nods.

“Yeah, it’s actually just been this one guy,” he admits carefully. “I’ve got to say I was very confused for a while, but then I just… decided it didn’t really matter, I guess.”

Seeing Alex’s accepting nod has him slumping a little in relief, some of the adrenaline in his system starting to drain out as his heartrate slows to only a little above its usual rhythm.

“I’m impressed you managed to get with someone in _November_ ,” James observes, and this is it: the final reveal.

“Yeah…” Dylan coughs. “That’s what else I wanted to tell you all.”

For a moment, the words stick in his throat – long enough for James’ eyebrows to lift in the beginnings of realisation, Courtney’s lips parting slowly.

“I’m, uh…” Dylan trails off, scratching the back of his head awkwardly as he tries to work out how to get it out while simultaneously steeling himself for their reactions. “It’s Owen. Owen Farrell.”

_There_.

“ _Faz_?” James splutters at the same time as Alex chokes, “ _Owen Farrell_?”

“Is this a joke?” Teimana demands; Dylan can only shake his head.

“Owen is…?” James trails off, apparently shocked, and Dylan feels himself stiffening, increasingly defensive of his absent boyfriend.

“He’s gay,” he tells them firmly, not allowing any of them room for argument. “I hope none of you have a problem with that?”

“Oh, fuck no!” James holds up his hands immediately, seemingly alarmed by the very suggestion. “Just surprised. Anyone can love whoever, you know?”

It’s the first vocal, explicit acceptance Dylan has had from any of them, and with it, tension comes sliding from his shoulders, his breath releasing from his loosening chest as his fingers fall from the half-held fists that they’ve formed since he first drew their attention. Around the room, the rest of the men – his teammates – are nodding in agreement, some murmuring their own affirmations of support. He’s fine. It’s all fine.

“So… When you said you had a date the other night…?”

“With Owen,” Dylan admits freely, and it's honestly so incredible to be able to say that. “He stayed over after the game.”

“Just had to be Farrell, though, didn’t it?” Teimana grumbles, rolling his eyes, and Dylan lifts one shoulder unapologetically. “Could’ve gone for any other club – ‘sides from Leicester, of course. But it had to be Saracens, and it had to be…”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dylan fills in sarcastically, unable to keep a grin from spreading through his cheeks. “Next time, I’ll bring along a checklist of which players I’m allowed to date, should I?”

 

It’s after a good five minutes of non-stop slaughter from his boyfriend for allowing James to call Owen first that Dylan finally hears the younger man’s tone soften, a gentler note taking the fore as Owen drops his teasing – for the time being.

“’S good it went alright,” he offers quietly, Dylan nodding even though Owen can’t see it and supplying a hum of acknowledgement alongside. “You happy with that?”

“Yeah,” Dylan blows out a breath. “Yeah, I am. Glad they took it well.”

“I bet,” Owen’s smile is audible. “Just a sec, Ron – fuck’s sake, have a bit of patience, will you?”

For half a beat, Dylan fights to hold back his smirk at Owen’s fond exasperation, but there’s no one around to see it.

“That’s a dog you’re talking to, mate.”

“Yeah, I _know_ –” Owen cuts himself off, huffing in mild irritation. “Thanks for the input, Dyl.”

“Very welcome, love.”

As usual, Owen falls quiet at the pet name, all fight leaving him, and Dylan takes a moment to appreciate what an effective word it is when talking to Owen. The preoccupation Owen has with it is more than a little endearing, and Dylan never fails to enjoy the gentle softening of Owen’s features and tone when met with it – never mind that it shuts down Owen’s side of their teasing spats every time, leaving Dylan to claim the good-natured win yet again.

“Um…” Owen coughs, clearly trying to regain his composure. “Yeah, I’m glad it went well. Hask was well happy when he called.”

“ _Happy_?” Dylan repeats, brow creasing just a little.

“Well, not happy – pleased. For us.”

The amendment makes more sense, and Dylan accepts it without anything more said on the subject; he knows that Owen sometimes struggles to find the right word to express himself.

“Yeah, Hask is good with that,” he offers instead, to a small noise of agreement from Owen. “How’ve you been, anyway?”

“Yeah, good…”

Dylan can almost picture Owen nodding as he speaks, the non-committally positive expression clear in his mind’s eye, and fondness swells within him at the image. He’d like to be with Owen right now – of course he would; when doesn’t he? This is as good as he’s going to get, though, and he’ll take it.

“Did a bit of kicking, and I’m just taking Ronnie out now,” Owen adds.

“Bad time?” Dylan asks, glancing briefly at the clock. “I can call back later.”

“Nah,” Owen refutes the suggestion almost hurriedly, the small rush warming Dylan’s chest with the thought that Owen wants to stay on the phone with him even if it is a little inconvenient. “I can talk while I’m out.”

 “Just be careful, yeah?” Dylan checks, because he doesn’t want Owen to get run over outside his own house because Dylan’s distracting him.

“Yes, Dyl, I’ll be careful,” Owen assures, amused, as Ronnie barks excitedly in the background, and Dylan lets it slide, trusting Owen to look after himself even if he is mocking Dylan’s tendency to worry over him.

For a short moment, quiet falls between them, and Dylan relaxes into it, finally dropping down into the armchair that he’s been hovering next to for the entirety of the conversation with a sigh of contentment. This really is all he thinks he could ask for at the moment: his teammates have accepted him, he’s on the phone with Owen, he’s ready to get back to England in a few months’ time…

Life is good – better, certainly, than it was a year ago. It’s strange, to think that it’s been more than a year since he first started questioning his sexuality, and still, he has no more of an answer than he did then. Honestly, though, Dylan isn’t really sure he cares anymore. He’s told his teammates that he isn’t bothered about labels, same as he told his parents, and these days, he thinks it might even be the truth.

At any rate, as long as this relationship lasts, Owen is the only answer he needs.


End file.
